“This,” I announced excitedly, thrusting the sheaves of A4 triumphantly aloft, “will make the Trojan Horse scandal look like a primary school playground punch-up. This document will shock the world!”

The editor peered over his half-rimmed glasses and ushered away flunkies gathered round his polished desk.

“Try to get video of the bloke who reckons his dog is Gabby Agbonlahor’s rottweiler’s love-pup and, for God’s sake, someone tell me what colour Helen Flanagan’s hair is today,” he told them.

He then eyed me suspiciously, before sighing: “We’re still dealing with the legal aftermath of your ‘world exclusive’ about the Birmingham worker who was, allegedly, an SS death camp commander.”

“I still stand by the...,” I shuffled uncomfortably.

“He’s a former DSS clerk who didn’t even partake in World War Two because of flat feet.”

“The reception on these new mobile phones you’ve given us is less than...,” I argued.

At that point a breathless showbiz correspondent opened the door and babbled: “Helen’s sporting ‘electric carrot’ this morning. But we’ve had a tip-off she’s going mauve at Guido’s Hair Studio, Selly Oak, at 4pm.”

“Get a snapper and reporter there!” barked the editor. “And ask her what she thinks happened to the Malaysian airliner. Likewise, any cast member of Peaky Blinders.”

The editor testily fingered his gleaming Sheaffer fountain pen then barked: “Not more allegations of school takeover plots by muslim extremists?”

“This bombshell document,” I whispered, leaning forward, “presented to me by a worried parent at the school in question is harrowing proof of the steps they’re prepared to take to brainwash children aged between five and 11.”

My boss snatched the dog-eared manuscript and pored over it as I explained: “The propaganda they’re pedalling on a daily basis is positively medieval. Get this, a virgin is impregnated by...”

The weary editor shook his head slowly and showed the palm of his hand in a command for silence.

“Five thousand people fed with just five loaves and two fish?” I asked hopefully.

My boss’ tapped his fingers on the desk.

“They’re positively promoting poverty,” I protested.

“For God’s sake, Mike!” sighed the editor.

“Seven of the dads are Watusi tribesmen,” I argued. “Their kids saw the big crucifix in the assembly hall and probably thought it was a warning about handing in late homework.”

“It’s not a story,” scowled the editor.

At that moment the door opened, and an excited reporter yelled: “One of the Chuckle Brothers has just said some pretty amazing stuff about North Korea’s despot leader.”